"Are you ill, miss?" she asked, glancing at the face which seemed almost
as colorless as the pillow.

"Only very tired, thank you," said Erica, glad enough today of the cup
of tea and the thin bread and butter which before had seemed to her such
an absurd luxury.

"Letters for the early post, miss, I suppose?" said the house maid,
taking up the fiery effusion.

"Please," replied Erica, not turning her head, and far too weary to give
a thought to her last night's work. All she could think of just then was
the usual waking reflection of a sufferer "How in the world shall I get
through the day?"

The recollection, however, of her parting conversation with her aunt
made her determined to be down to breakfast. Her absence might be
misconstrued. And though feeling ill-prepared for remonstrance or
argument, she was in her place when the gong sounded for prayers,
looking white and weary indeed, but with a curve of resoluteness about
her mouth. Nobody found out how tired she was. Mr. Fane-Smith was as
blind as a bat, and Mrs. Fane-Smith was too low-spirited and too much
absorbed with her own cares to notice. The events of last night looked
more and more disagreeable, and she was burdened with thoughts of what
people would say; moreover, Rose's cold was much worse, and as her
mother was miserable if even her little finger ached, she was greatly
disturbed, and persuaded herself that her child was really in a most
dangerous state.

Breakfast proved a very silent meal that morning, quite oppressively
silent; Erica felt like a child in disgrace. Every now and then the
grimness of it appealed to her sense of the ludicrous, and she felt
inclined to scream or do something desperate just to see what would
happen. At length the dreary repast came to an end, and she had just
taken up a newspaper, with a sort of gasp of relief at the thought of
escaping for a moment into a larger world, when she was recalled to the
narrow circle of Greyshot by a word from Mr. Fane-Smith.

"I wish to have a talk with you, my dear; will you come to the library
at ten o'clock?"

An interview by appointment! That sounded formidable! When the time
came, Erica went rather apprehensively to the library, fearing that she
was in for an argument, and wishing that Mr. Fane-Smith had chosen a day
on which she felt a little more up to things.

He received her very kindly, and drew an easy chair up to the fire for
her, no doubt doing as he would be done by, for